


A Midnight Clear

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Grosse Point Blank (1997)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-17
Updated: 2003-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1642328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin freaks out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mcee

 

 

Martin Blank took a slow hit off the proffered joint; the sweet and acrid smoke curling into his lungs. He held the hit until his eyes started to water, then passed it back to Paul, who was lying on the bed playing air drums to _London Calling_. "Thanks, man," he grunted. 

Martin stood, a little unsteadily, and started stalking around the room. He fucking hated being stoned sometimes. He hated the feeling of being less than sharp, less than aware. It made him paranoid- not just in the "everyone's looking at me" way, but in the way that someone could sneak up on him, or get the jump on him from miles away and he'd never hear it. He swigged from the bottle that he'd snagged from his old man. Being drunk was much better. You cared less. 

He and Paul were having their own pre-prom party tonight. Prom was tomorrow, when they'd have to button themselves into rented tuxes, act polite and compliment their dates' dresses. God knows Debi would have a fit if he showed up at her dad's palace in this state. So, they were having a last fling...the last real party of the year. 

He shook his head and stumbled out the back door of Paul's basement domain. The night air cleared his head a little, enough for the dread to come surging back. The tight panic twisted up his gut and into his throat as he looked out at the lights of Grosse Pointe. He couldn't stay. He couldn't stay and be Prom King and marry the Prom Queen and have little dark-haired babies and sneak out on alternate Fridays to smoke a joint with Paul, remembering how they used to be cool. He couldn't stay in college and kiss ass up the MBA food chain. God knows he couldn't stay with his mother, fading before his eyes, or his father, sinking into a bottle. 

He sucked in a deep breath, swallowing the helplessness and rage that always snuck in on the tail end of the panic attacks. Fucking hell, what was he going to do? _This_ is why he got stoned so freaking much. He couldn't handle this kind of anger. 

Paul stuck his head out. "Hey, man. You coming in, or what?" 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming." Martin walked inside, wincing as Paul clapped him on the shoulder. Fuck it, he wasn't in the mood for Paul's Grand Plan of the night, or the Tales of Paul's Greatness. He was sick of this shit. Martin sighed inwardly. It wasn't fair to take it out on Paul, but he was there- Paul was always fucking there- so he usually got the brunt of it. 

"My man, " Paul beamed. "We celebrate our last night as boys, and our first steps of manhood!" 

Martin took another big swig of gin. If Paul was going to keep talking like that, he was going to need it. The room started to sway pleasantly. God, if he passed out, the night would be perfect. 

"...and therefore," Paul was finishing up whatever bullshit he was spinning. "We need to look back in order to look forward." He triumphantly held up a box. 

"What's that?" 

"Our past, my friend. Our past." 

He opened it up. The box was filled with pictures, concert tickets, band flyers and what looked like a couple of roaches. "Holy shit, man. I didn't know you saved all this." 

"What can I say? I'm a sentimental bastard." 

They sat on the bed and flipped through the pictures, drinking and laughing. Martin could almost forget his fears while he was immersed in old memories. Their first concert- the Go-Go's, if you could fucking believe it- up to the picture of them waiting in line to see the Smiths. Good fucking times. Once the box was empty, Paul turned to him and slurred "So, what now?" 

"Uh...you're Plan Guy." 

"No, no...I mean." He waved his arm vaguely and nearly fell off the bed. "College. Debi. Whatever. What now?" 

"I don't...fuck, I don't know." 

Paul must have seen the panic in his eyes, or the sudden threat of his passing out. He dropped the flyer he was holding, leaned over and put his arm around Martin. "Dude. You are the best friend I've ever had." 

Then he did the most shocking, unexpected thing in the world. 

He kissed him. 

Hard. 

On the mouth. 

Martin froze. All thoughts of fear and Grosse Pointe and Debi were demolished in his shock. This was...something new. Something he hadn't considered. 

He reached forward slowly and touched Paul's hair gently. Then he grabbed it, hard and pulled him closer. Paul grunted in surprise, but came willingly, opening his mouth in anticipation. Yes, yes, yes...this was freedom. Paul, despite making the totally ballsy move to kiss him, probably never expected him to react like that. He was operating outside the radar of social expectations, and it was incredibly liberating. It was also a fucking serious turn-on. 

He shoved Paul down on the bed and straddled him, grinding against him fiercely. Martin could tell that he was still surprised, but he was too high or turned on to care. He closed his eyes and rode the feeling, exultant at finally letting it all out and letting it go. 

Through the haze of smoke and lust he could hear Paul...whimpering? He looked down and realized that his hands had slipped from Paul's shoulders to around his neck. He let go slightly, enough so Paul could breathe...but he left his hands there. He liked the look of it, the power of it. 

*...I could kill him...* 

The thought drifted through his head- stunning him, shaking him. He shocked back into awareness just in time to feel Paul shuddering beneath him. The combination of his sudden clarity of mind and the sensation of Paul bucking and writhing was enough to send him over the edge. He came, gripping the edge of the bed and biting his lip. Ecstasy washed over him, accompanied by the taste of blood. 

When his vision cleared, he could see that Paul had already passed out. Shakily, Martin got up and cleaned himself off and washed his face. Stepping outside, he lit a cigarette and looked out at the lights of Grosse Pointe. Amazing that he had just done this...what? An hour before? ...and things had seemed so different. Life was different. He was different. He had thought there was nothing that could be changed, but now he knew that nothing was set in stone. He had thought he could control his rage and fear, but now he knew that his darkness festered deeper than he ever wanted to realize. 

It wasn't merely a matter of descending into gray oblivion, or killing Debi's spirit with his slow and inevitable withdrawal. He was dangerous. Dangerous to himself, and dangerous to everyone around him. 

He couldn't stay. 

He couldn't do this to Debi. Or Paul. 

He was afraid of himself. 

He was afraid of what he could do. 

Martin exhaled and watched the smoke curling off into the sky. He paused and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the crumpled card that he'd meant to throw out this morning. 

Sergeant John H. Masterson  
Unites States Army  
Recruitment Officer  
(313) 525-9864 

Maybe he wasn't a total fuck-up after all. If anyone could use some good, old-fashioned American psychological programming, it was him. 

It was time to do something unexpected. 

 


End file.
